


An invitation

by Gwyllt



Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [1]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Language, Gen, Homosexual tendencies, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24345841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: Henry Prescott wants nothing more than to meet Donald Ressler and finds an ingenious way.
Relationships: Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley/Donald Ressler
Series: Homosexual tendencies [Resscott] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796308
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	An invitation

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, I like these two. The scene with an invitation Ressler to the cinema was cut from the show, but North remem—  
> sorry, wrong fandom.
> 
> Many thanks to my friend and co-author Fallenskies, who helped me with the translation. Without her this work wouldn't exist.

“I need your help.”

Prescott’s voice sounded ordinary but Ressler’s gut shrunk. He knew what “help” Prescott needed. Again.

“Come to Barnard Hill Park. As quick as you can.”

No matter how Ressler felt about Prescott, he could give it to him—he’d find the places off the beaten path even in DC. Ressler always thought it was impossible—if there weren’t any onlookers, then Big Brother was watching you—but when Ressler, driven by a navigator, stopped at the location and stepped out from the car, he realized he didn’t know his own town well: on the right side he saw a dense forest which began right after a strip of a narrow lawn, and on the left, he found a two-story house made of red bricks—it seemed like it was abandoned a long time ago. Lampposts, poking out like giant cocktail straws along the road, gave a dim orange light, and as far as Ressler could see, there was nothing: neither a CCTV cam nor even a passer-by.

“Son of a bitch,” Ressler murmured, slamming the car’s door shut. Finding a key fob in his pocket, he pressed a button to set the alarm, and the taillights blinked. He walked down the street, trying to keep a low profile: one can’t be too cautious.

He walked to the corner of Eastern Ave and 28th and then stopped, pierced by an unpleasant thought: what if he drove to the park on the wrong side? What if Prescott stands right now on the other side, and later that asshole will be threatening him as if he hadn’t come at all.

As if answering his thoughts, the phone vibrated in his pocket. Ressler swore quietly and drew the phone out—of course there was Prescott’s name on display.

“Where are you?” Ressler spat instead of ‘Hello’, glancing around the empty street.

“Turn around,” the answer followed.

Squeezing the phone so hard his fingers went numb, Ressler obeyed—and saw a familiar silhouette under the lamppost. Prescott raised his hand with the phone and waved to him. A white screen flickered through the dark and went off when Ressler hung up.

The soles of Ressler’s shoes pounded heavily on the asphalt as he walked to Prescott. He stopped and then crossed his arms over his chest—but Prescott wasn’t impressed.

“Well?” Ressler sputtered.

“Well what?” Prescott’s features were indiscernible in the dark, but Ressler could’ve sworn he was smiling. Laughing right at his face.

“Where?” Ressler prompted.

“Where what?” Prescott wondered, an innocent look on his face.

Ressler clenched his fists. He wanted to punch Prescott right in his pretty face but didn’t move an inch—any impulsive movement would have brought more trouble, and there was plenty of it already.

“Where is the thing you’ve called me in for?” Ressler clarified, making sure he sounded as respectful as he could.

“Ah, you mean the trash.” Prescott shook his head, and for one brief moment his face was lighted by an orange light, highlighting its shape. “You had it wrong, I didn’t call you for the cleanup.”

“And why then?” Ressler was boiling with rage. “For what fucking reason I came to this shithole, huh? To the other end of the town, at night?”

“Shithole, you think so?” Prescott turned around, looking at the rows of trees. The late bird chirped somewhere in the woods, Ressler didn’t know the name of it. “I kinda like it. Quiet, calm, beautiful, and the weather is great today.”

Prescott turned his head slightly, and though he was still disguised by the shadows, Ressler felt like he stared at him.

“Wanna walk?” 

“Prescott,”—Ressler grunted, trying to make his voice convincing—“I work for you, fine. I clean up your trash, fine. But if you want to hang out or walk in the moonlight, for fuck’s sake, pick someone else. We are  _ not  _ pals.”

“Too bad.” Ressler registered a movement and flinched—for a fraction of a second he thought Prescott was pulling out a gun, but when his hand appeared in a flashlight there was no gun in it. “Too bad you still don’t get it—you are my bitch, and you will do whatever I want and whenever I want. You don’t want the evidence for Hitchin’ case to come up, right? It will be so embarrassing—I mean, for you. The FBI agent murdered the National Security Adviser—oh my, Agent Ressler.”

Ressler clenched his teeth so hard they almost squeaked. But what could he do? Grab Prescott and break his neck? And where is the guarantee Prescott doesn’t have someone else, someone he can trust enough to leak the evidence? If Ressler was Prescott he would have made sure to cover his own ass.

“I’m glad we came to a mutual agreement, Agent Ressler.” Prescott was smirking—Ressler could tell it from his voice—and reached out to him. “I heard, new Pixar’s movie is amazing. I’ve bought tickets on Friday night—I know, you usually hit the bottle, but guess you can use a change of scenery.”

Prescott pulled out a paper rectangle—it reflected a lampost’s orange light. Ressler could’ve sworn, he knew what it was, but he snatched it from Prescott’s hand anyway.

That’s right, a ticket to  _ Landmark Atlantic _ for a late-night movie, back row seats.

“They close the doors when the movie starts,”—Prescott said, his eyes fixed at Ressler—“so I highly recommend you to be punctual. I will be very upset if you miss the show. Ciao!”

He raised his hand in a good-bye gesture, silently waving to Ressler, turned his back and went away, disappearing in the dark. Probably, his car was parked somewhere around the corner… The ticket burnt Ressler’s fingers, and it took him a lot of effort not to tear it up and throw it away—damaged tickets weren’t valid.

_ Fucking asshole. _


End file.
